


The Emerald Falls

by KtwoNtwo



Category: A Study in Emerald - Neil Gaiman, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canonical Character Death, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Lovecraftian, Story: The Final Problem, Victorian, slash goggles optional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26742142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KtwoNtwo/pseuds/KtwoNtwo
Summary: Politics, it is said, makes for strange bedfellows.  Other events can also do so as a detective and his friend discover."The Final Problem"  set in the Lovecraftian Victorian AU from "A Study in Emerald."
Relationships: Sebastian Moran & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 4





	1. Begin from the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Study in Carbuncle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21984046) by [okapi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short time ago I came across [A Study in Carbuncle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21984046) which played around in that alternative universe created by Mr. Gaiman in [A Study in Emerald](https://www.neilgaiman.com/mediafiles/exclusive/shortstories/emerald.pdf). I did not think much beyond my enjoyment of the works in question until a creature, I can in no way call it a bunny, crawled out of the depths of my subconscious. It proceeded to vocalize a piping sound, something like a flute, that mesmerized my muse to the extent that I could work on nothing else but the fulfillment of it's desires. This, gentle readers, is the end result such as it is.

In no way, shape or form can I be called a literary man. The written word is not my best means of expression. Despite this I have taken it upon myself to chronicle the genius of the man I like to refer to as my friend. A variety of these literary endeavors have been published in the Star for the edification and amusement of the general public. My colleague, however, opines that these pieces merely serve to gratify the prurient appetites of the unwashed masses for sensationalized adventures. Regardless of which classification is correct my stories tended to bring a multitude of problems to our door on Baker Street. This not only allowed for the timely payment of the rent but also kept my friend from the fits of ennui that plagued him when his mind was not properly occupied.

Of course, not every case was suitable for publication. Some were too simple to properly highlight my friend’s extraordinary gifts. Others required extreme discretion and could not be related without exposing the parties to ridicule or censure or worse. Still others would be considered of such importance to the security of the nation that publishing them would be tantamount to treason. I do work around such limitations with obfuscation of details, names and dates. Sometimes I even ascribe events belonging to one investigation to a completely different puzzle or problem. Regardless of the liberties I take with the absolute truth my primary intent is to provide insight and illuminate the remarkable man with whom I share quarters. 

This document, unfortunately, is not one of my tales. In this particular instance I find myself recording the events herein solely for posterity. Once finished I intend to secrete it in the false bottom of my dispatch box stored in the vault of B---- & Sons. There it will remain only to be released under certain circumstances after my death. I pray that these circumstances will not come to pass too quickly because it means the even the plans formulated for the worst of all possible contingencies have failed. But, if our efforts do indeed come to naught, hopefully my feeble attempts at recording will serve as a guide to those who come after, if any such hearty soles still exist. I digress. As my friend so kindly reminds me we have not yet failed and with a bit of luck, hard work and perseverance all may still be set aright. 

As he also observes, I have once again started my memorialization in the middle and would do much better to commence at the beginning. That instruction in itself poses a conundrum. What exactly constitutes the beginning of the tale? Do I assume that the historical record will remain intact over time? Will my previous publication be considered fact, fiction, or some strange amalgamation thereof; the disordered fantasies of a delusional mind? I suppose I must assume that my reader will know of the coming of those who now rule the world. They who arose from the depths of time and space bearing half-forgotten names of antiquity; the Old Ones who came to lift us from the depths of our depravity. I also must assume that any future reader will have perused the more prosaic contents of the dispatch box and thus have all my original case notes from which I derived my published tales even if the latter do not survive. 

I need not, therefore, recount the untimely death of the Prince of Bohemia from which my friend’s subsequent investigations lead us to the anarchist Rache and his cohort the Limping Doctor. I only mention it to note that since that first encounter in the spring of 1881 my friend had occasionally discovered traces of the unsavory activities of that storied pair. Form time to time he would note the detritus of their machinations not only in the news of the day but also in certain problems that ended up darkening our doorstep. Of course, there were plenty of cases that had nothing to do with those of the blood royal, no matter how diluted. Although after a while it seemed inevitable that if a case did touch the sphere of the nobility there would be indications that Rache was, if not peripherally involved, at least interested in the outcome. 

The first time my friend deduced his direct involvement occurred in a case that I have not yet published for fear of upsetting the fragile peace that presently holds in Europa. Suffice it to say it involved the theft of certain pages of the Pnakotic Manuscripts from the home of a researcher who was attempting to authenticate them. My friend managed to solve the theft from a stain on the floor which was not aligned with the blood on the carpet. He traced the location of the document through a convoluted web of blackmail, betrayal and murder and ultimately managed return it to the researcher. There was one point in the chain of events, however, that my friend could never completely unravel. It was a period where the document was not in the hidden lock box owned by the blackmailer. My friend had searched the box carefully after the blackmailer’s body had been discovered and it wasn’t there. Yet less than 48 hours later it was found therein by the person being blackmailed. A bit of a specific blend of tobacco found under the rug led my friend to suspect Rache’s involvement. The report of a tall, handsome woman in the area who was never subsequently located and a footprint in the back garden made my friend all the more certain although he could not understand what would motivate a restorationist to copy a partial arcane ritual that seemed to be for the control of crowds.

After 1886 our investigations began to more frequently intersect with the activities of Rache and his ilk. In early 1887 my friend chased the infamous swindler, Baron Maupertunis, for over two months before finally bringing him to bay. After the Baron’s arrest my friend was invited to assist in the search of his papers. He found a few letters of interest from a “Captain Basil” who’s hand and phrasing was strikingly similar to that of the so-called Sherry Vernet. The case of Mr. Melas the linguist, which had been referred to us by M. H----- of Her Majesty’s Home Office, at the time did not appear to have a similar connection. However, when my friend was later consulted about the murder of two men of partial royal blood in Hungry he was not only able to deduce their connection to the lady involved that case but also that the manner of their demise was clearly similar to the relatively unique techniques used by the Limping Doctor. From that point forward, it became commonplace for my friend to mutter under his breath at either or both nom-de-guerres when we were involved with issues touching Royals and their multitudinous noble offspring. 

Specifically, I recall several cases in between 1888 and 1890 where that was the situation. There was the incident regarding the King of Scandinavia, the recovery of heirlooms for the Royal family in Holland as well as the singular conundrum that ended up impacting the nobility not only on our fair shores but also in France and Poland. In each case Rache was clearly at least peripherally involved either directly, by inspiration, or through advice and support of the miscreants. There was also the case of a former agent of He Who Presides over the Americas who had fled to our shores to avoid the attentions of both his ex-employer and the group which he had been assigned to infiltrate. In that situation my friend received not one but two missives from Rache. The first one was a coded cipher allegedly from a member of the restoration named Fred Porlock while the second was unsigned. He was surprisingly absent from the incident with the opera singer and the King of Bohemia. I suspect, however, that he was watching from the wings ready to act if the diva was unable to free herself from royal attention. He was also absent from the investigation I undertook for my friend in Dartmoor even though that case involved the offspring of a princess and a creature summoned from the outer darkness. It took both my friend's mental prowess and a silver-jacketed bullet through the skull to finally rid the moors of that particular blight upon the land and the royal bloodline. The less said about the infamous Whitechapel murders the better, although by the end of it my friend realized that Rache and his Doctor had been attempting to solve the mystery from the other end of the problem so to speak. If someone had told me that the four of us would end up working in concert, albeit inadvertently, I would have labeled him mad. I find that I have digressed slightly from my original purpose once again. However, I fear that my words will go unheeded in certain quarters if this missive does not contain at least a modicum of the historical interactions between my friend and his notorious anarchist opponent. 

I suppose the true start of this tale however was in the dead of winter not long after the turning of the solstice when the red moon holds most power over those in whom the old blood flows strong. My friend and I were returning from a concert followed by dinner at the Strand. Our most recent private commission had been satisfactorily completed the week before with the destruction of the libelous papers in question. While my friend was in high spirits I was still unsure if there might be ramifications from the death of the master blackmailer that we had inadvertently witnessed. He had reassured me, however, that he had provided sufficient proof to the palace that Mr. C. M-------- had been working not so much in the interest of the crown but more in his personal pecuniary gain. Accordingly, I thought the worst when we turned the corner onto Baker Street and spotted a distinctive black coach sitting in front of our very door. My anxiety increased tenfold when the coachman indicated that only my friend had been summoned. My friend did not seem affected at all and merely remarked that at least he was properly attired for such a visit. I knew full well this was one of those invitations which, when delivered, were impossible to refuse so I handed my friend into the coach then repaired to our sitting room to wait.

As I have, at certain times in my military career, acted as a sniper; sitting vigil is thus not at all unknown to me. I found to my chagrin this period of waiting was distinctly different. None of my various strategies for remaining alert and coping with the unknown seemed to have much effect. I finally gave up and simply sat. It was almost an hour after midnight when I heard the coach. The front door opened then closed yet I did not hear my friend’s tread upon the stair. Fearing the worst, I went to investigate. I found my friend, slightly rumpled, leaning on the wall at the base of the stairs. His demeanor was a look with which I was all too familiar; pale with a slight tremor of the limbs and a vacant stare. He did not acknowledge me as I rushed to his side. 

The next hour and a half were taxing to say the least. I have never in my life been as thankful for the recent remodeling of our flat to include a full-fledged bathing room as I was that night. After the inevitable unpleasantries were over and my friend was clean and ensconced in his bed I repaired to the sitting room to plan. I didn’t remain there very long as my friend became restless; calling out weakly in a variety of languages. He calmed a bit when I sat and talked or read to him but always the mania returned until sometime in the early morning when he lapsed into something resembling sleep. From my observations of his state along with the muttered in English and Pashto I concluded that he had at some point in the evening been a party to an altercation amongst two or more of the royals. I was unsure as to what exactly had happened but the fact that my friend had been unable to completely extricate himself from the fray indicated that the disagreement had been both serious and violent. 

I consulted with Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, in the morning and we developed a plan of action. She would have all comers turned away from our doors and would sit with my friend for a spell to allow me to eat and obtain a few hours of sleep before taking up my post again. We quickly discovered that leaving him alone for more than a few minutes would result in either a nightmare or a bout of the restless crying out. We took comfort in the fact that as the day went on more of his words were in English. By the late afternoon he began to be somewhat feverish. I scribbled a quick note to Dr. A-------- whom my friend had consulted both professionally and personally and who, not coincidentally, was somewhat familiar with arcane injuries. 

Mrs. Hudson had only just removed the remains of my hastily consumed meal and I was preparing to reenter my friend’s room when there was a ring at the bell. I hoped it was Dr. A-------- but judging by the length of discussion that Mrs. Hudson was having with the caller the odds of that were dwindling by the minute. I stood in the bedroom doorway so that I could both watch my friend and talk to Mrs. Hudson if she needed my input regarding the caller. Moments later she tapped on the sitting room door, entered and asked if I would have a moment to speak to Dr. A--------‘s colleague. I indicated my assent so long as she could remain with my friend who was again becoming restless. In short order Mrs. Hudson ushered a well dressed gentleman with a Gladstone bag into the sitting room giving his name as Dr. Whitson. 

My initial impression of Dr. Whitson was that he was a rather nondescript man. He was slightly shorter than average with a plain but trustworthy face. In manner and appearance, he appeared to be the very form of the relatively successful generic London physician. He also seemed vaguely familiar but I dismissed that as my general reaction to his dress and demeanor which, no doubt, had been intentionally selected to inspire confidence. After a moment of reflection, I realized that Dr. Whitson was one of those rare people who would easily pass in a wide variety of situations. My friend would at times refer to such personages as natural chameleons. Put him in evening dress and he would be unnoticeable in a crowd at the opera. In laborer’s clothes he’d fit right in at the docks. If you put him in a uniform he’d be welcome in all but the most discriminating regimental watering holes in the empire. With a simple change of clothes he could do what often required my friend several hours and a decent amount of theatrical makeup to achieve. 

“Good evening sir,” I started, “I was expecting my missive to bring Dr. A------- so I admit I am a bit confused by your presence.”

“Understandable,” Dr. Whitson replied. “Dr. A-------- and I occasionally consult on difficult cases that touch upon our respective specialties. I happened to be at his surgery when your note was delivered along with an urgent summons regarding another patient of his. Given that I have some expertise in the maladies that sometimes result from interactions with our beloved Queen’s kinfolk we agreed that I would stop in and offer my services whilst he attended to his other patient.”

He reached into his inner jacket pocket and retrieved an envelope which he handed to me.

“Knowing the need for confidentiality and the dangerous nature of your work he provided me with a bit of an introduction.”

I accepted the envelope.

“He also indicated that I should tell you in no case would his housekeeper ever wear green before the spring equinox”

I opened the envelope to find a hastily written note on Dr. A-------‘s distinctive stationary. Its contents as well as the phrase regarding the housekeeper reassured me that this Dr. Whitson was indeed legitimate and a trusted compatriot of Dr. A--------.

“Did Dr. A-------- share the contents of my missive with you?” I asked.

“Nothing except the fact that the malady afflicting your compatriot appeared to have been caused by over exposure to one of royal blood.”

I glanced at the doorway and wondered if my conversation with the Doctor could be overheard by Mrs. Hudson sitting at my friend’s bedside.

I lowered my voice a bit, “Shall I tell you of the particular symptoms and my suspicions as to what occurred?”

Dr. Whitson considered my question carefully then shook his head, “I would prefer to perform an examination and provide what relief I may first. We can then compare observations and hopefully determine at least some of the facts. As an acquaintance of mine is wont to say ‘it is a mistake to theorize before one has all the facts’ and I have found it to be good advice.”

“Well then,” I said, “let me not stand in between you and your patient,” as I conducted Dr. Whitson into my friend’s room.

Mrs. Hudson and I repaired to the sitting room to give my friend at least a modicum of privacy. We spoke sparingly in low voices, both of us anxious about what the Doctor would diagnose. We did not have to wait long. Less than a half-hour later Dr. Whitson slipped out the door of my friend’s room closing it softly behind him. I am sure he saw the concern in both our faces because he started in immediately.

“Physically,” he stated, “all will be well in less than a week. Mentally it will take longer depending upon the nature of the interaction. He sighed, “Unfortunately a mental assessment will have to wait until he can communicate. However, I suspect given your published accounts, that the time involved in his mental recovery will be much less than whatever I would dare to estimate.” 

Practical woman that she was, Mrs. Hudson asked, “So what can we do to aid his return to health Doctor?”

“I have given him a hefty dose of opium to help him sleep deeply,” Dr. Whitson said. “It is clear that the state he was in could not be considered truly restful and rest is what he needs at first. If all goes well he should sleep through to the morning. At that point you should see if you can get him to drink and maybe even eat some light fare. Treat it as you would someone recovering from a bout of influenza with an overabundance of liquids, as much as you can get him to take.”

“Bone broth, soups, porridges and such then,” Mrs. Hudson asserted looking at me. “I will most likely need to obtain some Ginger as well as other supplies,” she added looking between me and the bedroom door. 

I nodded indicating that I would deal with the Doctor as well as keep watch over my friend. 

She nodded back and turned to go saying, “I will see what I have on hand. Ring if you need me.” 

“I will,” I assured her as I turned back to Dr. Whitson.

He was looking at me assessing, I suspected, what exactly he could or should tell me about my friend’s condition. 

“You are a military man if I recall correctly from your stories,” he finally said.

“Yes.”

“Afghanistan and if I have guessed your regiment aright you have seen, experienced, things that very few have escaped with life, limb, and sanity relatively intact.”

“Yes.”

“I was at Maiwand.”

With that simple statement I knew that he had seen and experienced similar horrors. I was not quite sure what, if anything, I should say to that. Luckily, he did not seem to need or want any acknowledgement of that revelation.

“What exactly do you know of your friend’s encounter and what was his reaction to it?” he asked bluntly.

I told him.

“That explains a few things,” he muttered half to himself when I had finished.

“Enlighten me then,” I replied startling him a bit.

“I beg your pardon, I was attempting to put the pieces together in some semblance of an order.”

“And?”

“As you have surmised your friend was most likely witness to an argument at the highest levels. I found evidence of wounds but they all looked to be a few months old and healed to the exact same extent. From that I concluded that he was rather severely injured and then summarily healed. The nature and amount of power used for such healing is consistent with the initial bodily reactions you observed.”

I winced remembering the searing pain that had accompanied her Majesty’s touch which eventually had resulted in my regaining the use of my arm and shoulder. That healing and its attendant oddities of feeling had, after the initial pain, occurred gradually over months. My mind balked at the implications of all that discomfort occurring in a much shorter period of time. 

Dr. Whitson continued, “The strain on the body when something that should have happened over time occurs all at once is immense. It uses up the person’s resources and creates toxins which, if there is no energy left to expel them, will kill. Such a healing not only leaves the body physically vulnerable but also renders the mind and spirit open to,” he paused clearly searching for a word or phrase, “impressions at best and meddling at worst.”

Well that explained the linguistic anomalies. I was relatively sure that my friend was somewhat fluent in only some of the languages that he had been babbling while having only a smattering of many of the others. 

“So what do you recommend?”

“After the initial dose of opium wears off I would not give him any more as that could exacerbate any mental aftereffects. I’ll give you a recipe for a herbal tincture that can be used as a calming agent instead. It would be worth giving it prophylactically over the next two or three days if you can get him to drink it. The herbs will assist in his mental adjustment to whatever occurred.”

Dr. Whitson rummaged about in his Gladstone and pulled out a pen and a notepad. He used the table to scribble the recipe. Once finished he handed it to me and smiled.

“I have it on good authority,” he continued, “that it is not entirely unpalatable when combined with a cup of strong black tea.”

“Is there anything else I need to be aware of or watch for?” I asked.

“Dr. A------- said he’d drop by tomorrow at the latest and if there has been no significant improvement in his condition after a few days you can have him get in touch with me.”

He paused then and looked around the sitting room. He looked back at me. I don’t know what he saw that made him continue but clearly something gave him reassurance.

“I have found over a number of patients,” he started somewhat hesitantly, “that constant human contact is helpful in ensuring the ultimate mental recovery especially when meddling has occurred.”

“Exactly what kind and amount of contact has had the greatest effect?” I asked.

“Sitting with the patent, reading aloud and other things that reassure the mind that they are not alone,” he quickly replied.

I had a suspicion about what the Doctor was intimating but I have always preferred to have things spelled out plainly.

“You needn’t be concerned that I will be offended by your suggestions Doctor,” I assured him. “I am somewhat familiar with the state in which my friend finds himself and I will do most anything possible to shorten his recovery.”

“Skin to skin contact; the more skin the better. An emotional connection between the patient and the person providing comfort also appears to increase the effectiveness,” he stated bluntly.

I understood his reticence to even suggest such a thing. Most would take offense at someone advocating course of action which might, if exposed to public scrutiny, be viewed as licentious no matter how chaste the situation was in actuality. Even if war had not taught me the comforts of having another person close to hand given the circumstances I doubt I would have dismissed his advice out of hand.

“Thank you,” I replied all the while thinking of how I could manage to provide my friend the suggested succor without completely tarnishing either his reputation or mine.

“I have no doubt that you and your landlady will have things well in hand by the time Dr. A------- checks in with you tomorrow,” Dr. Whitson reassured as he closed up his bag and headed to retrieve his coat which was on the back of the sofa.

As he turned and moved I noticed something interesting about his stance. Whenever he shifted his weight to his left leg he hesitated ever so slightly. It was almost as if he didn’t quite trust it to take his weight and then was somewhat surprised when it did so. I knew that type of movement well. It had taken me months to trust my healed shoulder and arm after the Queen’s touch. It had taken me almost a year to train myself out of the hesitation in actually using my arm at full capacity as well as to regain my prowess with a rifle. That observation prompted another, far more speculative supposition. I squelched the thought before it could be fully formed. What I did not know as a certainty I would not need to prevaricate about. 

Dr. Whitson shrugged into his overcoat and picked up his bag. I opened the door for him and let him proceed me down the stairs. At the front door he paused.

“I have no doubt that your detective will pull through with his faculties intact,” he said, “and I wish you the best of luck in keeping him from overexerting himself before he really should.”

I didn’t even want to think about the note of sympathy I heard in his voice. 

“Thank you very much Doctor,” was all I replied as I let him out in to the cold evening.


	2. Realizations & Rationalizations

After Dr. Whitson had left I consulted with Mrs. Hudson about obtaining the tincture he had prescribed. 

She took a look at the list of herbs and the amounts then remarked, “Well that looks a lot like the recipe for a soother that my dear old mother would make to calm hysteria. There are some additional ingredients but none that are harmful to my knowledge.”

“Can it be obtained before tomorrow?” I asked.

“I have over half of the ingredients in the larder,” Mrs. Hudson had replied. “The rest are easily obtained with the exception of the St. John’s Wort.” She paused and thought, “Although I do know someone who might have a bit on hand.”

I then related the remainder of Dr. Whitson’s suggestions with a bit more delicacy than either he or I had ultimately used. I found, to my surprise, that my attempted discretion was altogether unnecessary. She assured me that she would act as the dragon at the gate, protecting our good name and privacy from all comers. It didn’t hurt that she picked up a cast-iron pan as she said this and gave it a testing swing, presumably trying it out against an imaginary intruder. I was reassured by her loyalty and charmed by her willingness to take up arms so to speak in our defense. She shooed me off at that point telling me to get some rest in case the opium my friend had been given wore off earlier than expected.

The next few days were somewhat taxing. I only left my friend’s side to take care of the barest necessities for myself. It was, in my estimation, well worth the time and effort. Whether it was my presence, the tincture, Mrs. Hudson’s nourishing food or some combination of the three my friend slowly but steadily improved. It might not have been apparent to another but I could tell that the worrisome vacancy of his initial waking had given way to something more akin to his contemplative moods when he was mentally worrying at a problem. He did not speak or acknowledge me but he would eat if pressed and with a little assistance attend to bodily needs. Dr. A-------- had stopped in twice but his general opinion both times was that so long as progress was being made he was cautiously optimistic regarding an eventual full recovery. I was still surprised a few days later to awaken to find my friend looking intently at me. His grey eyes were clear and focused. 

When he saw I was awake he asked softly, “How long?”

“Six days since you arrived back from the Palace,” I replied.

He closed his eyes and sighed. Then he shuddered. I gathered him into my arms hoping to forestall one of the waking dreams which he had been subject to where he twitched and cried out, his mind superimposing some eldritch horror on the real world. Once again, I was surprised when instead of deteriorating into a trembling mass he merely snorted and relaxed into my hold. I know not how long we lay there together but finally he sighed again.

“I feel as weak as a kitten,” he finally said as he started to pull away, “But…”

I think he was a little shocked that he did not need to finish his sentence before I was up and moving. It did not take long at all until I had him wearing his favorite dressing gown ensconced in his chair. Mrs. Hudson brought tea and fussed a bit upon seeing my friend up, about and apparently in full possession of his wits. I had to grab the paper to hide my grin as I watched him suffer through her attentions. He was much relieved when she took herself off to make lunch with a ‘you must be starving…’ 

No sooner had the door closed my friend’s eyes started darting about. I could tell from my position still behind the paper that he was cataloging and deducing what had occurred in the last few days from the scant clues in the room. 

“Dr. A------- has been here twice, no three times,” he stated.

I put down the paper and looked about the room.

“His calling cards are rather distinctive, aren’t they?” I replied noting the 2 cards that were sitting on the mantlepiece on top of the letter of introduction of Dr. Whitson.

He smiled and added, “And he can never resist fiddling with the skull. He has picked it every time he has ever been in this room.”

I hadn’t noticed that habit but I had no reason to doubt the observation.

“Inspector Lestrade has been here also,” he commented. 

“Yes.”

I could see the inspector’s gloves sitting where he had forgotten them on the arm of the sofa half under a cushion.

“But he didn’t need my input. He was interested in your expertise.”

I cocked my head at him, mutely asking how he had come to that conclusion without confirming or denying the truth of the matter.

“No documents or files, but there is a map and a bullet on the desk. Clearly he wished to consult you on some matter involving firearms.” He paused and his gaze settled on the paper, “and the recent assassination of a member of the peerage.”

I looked at the paper now sitting on my lap. The headline proclaimed the shooting of the Duke of Y----earlier in the week. I was unaware until that moment that my friend could read upside down text. I did have to admit to myself that it was a useful skill.

“Yes,” I acknowledged. “He was attempting to find the shooter’s nest. He would have been interested in your thoughts as well but I informed him you had contracted the influenza.”

“As good an excuse as any,” he nodded. “It will be all over Scotland Yard by this point and from thence make its way to the criminal classes. Anyone keeping watch on this household will thereafter tailor their observations to fit.”

“It will merely confirm what they think they already know,” I remarked.

It was my friend’s turn to give me an inquiring look.

“Mrs. Hudson bartered for some supplies from Mrs. Turner two doors down. Young Wiggins has also made several trips to the apothecary for her. Influenza was the excuse she used.”

“Given Mrs. Turner’s propensity for gossip,” he bobbed his head in appproval, “I suppose most of London now ‘knows’ that I have been so afflicted.”

There was a tap on the door followed directly by Mrs. Hudson with a tray containing a light luncheon. I folded the paper and placed it on the side table as my friend took another look around the sitting room.

“We’ve also had several callers interested in procuring my services,” he continued as Mrs. Hudson laid out our repast on the sideboard. 

“Only a few,” she commented offhandedly following up with, “probably nothing over a 3,” under her breath.

We both stared at her, surprised. Neither of us had known that she was aware my friend’s propensity to numerically classifying cases. Anything under a 4 was not worth leaving the sitting room and 9 or greater generally involved either serial killers or matters of state. 

Mrs. Hudson noticed our shock and seemed embarrassed that we’d overheard her muttering. She hastened to explain.

“After the number of visitors traipsing in and out of these rooms and cases you two have handled I have been amusing myself by rating the client’s problems as they come in the door,” she explained. “It makes the household run smoother when I know in advance that you may be going hither, there, and yon at all hours of the day and night.”

My friend was intrigued as was I. I wondered how her scale of problems compared to his?

“Might I inquire as to just how you make this assessment?” he asked her. 

She waived her had at him, “It’s not at all like what you do. I simply observe how they behave when I answer the door.”

“And what, pray tell, exactly rates a 3 or less,” I asked.

“I’m not really sure,” she said as she finished up with the sideboard. “Anyone who attempts to have me plead their cause clearly knows that their problem is not really worthy of attention. If they arrive with a pile of papers it also tends to be less interesting, unless it happens to be one of your inspector friends in which case it is probably relatively important as they don’t bother ‘bringing round’ the routine matters. Attitude, nerves, dress and the like also have something to do with it. I tend to start planning contingencies if I spot what looks like it might be a 5 or bigger as that usually means dinner will need to be adjusted accordingly.” With that pronouncement she left us to our repast.

I had fully expected my friend to ask for a fuller accounting of the time between his arrival here and the present after we had finished our luncheon. It turned out not to be. As Mrs. Hudson was clearing the remain she gave me a worried look followed by a glance at my friend. While my friend hadn’t eaten much, he had consumed more in one sitting than we’d managed to get him to eat over the last few days so that wasn’t the problem. I took a look in my friend’s direction and discovered that he had fallen asleep where he sat. Given his earlier admission of weakness I wasn’t terribly surprised. I smiled at Mrs. Hudson and indicated that I was not concerned. She nodded in return and took herself quietly out.

I had become rather adept at cataloging my friend’s sleeping patterns over the last few days. This appeared to be more of a nap as opposed to sleeping deeply. I quickly decided moving him to the sofa, as opposed to back to his bed, would be the better option. I suppose that all my care had somehow convinced my friend’s mind that I was ‘safe’ and thus he only half woke as I transferred him over.

My supposition proved to be correct when an hour and a half later my friend stirred. He didn’t seem too surprised to find himself laying on the sofa covered by the afghan that usually lived on it back. He simply sat up and looked at me. It was clear from his face that he was trying to come to a conclusion about something. I forestalled what ever it was that was bothering him by ringing for tea. 

I could tell from the smell that Mrs. Hudson had added the prescribed tincture to this particular pot of tea. I had no problem drinking it. As Mrs. Hudson had said and my own research had confirmed, there was nothing harmful in the concoction. It merely imparted a distinctive flavor to the strong black tea we usually preferred. My friend took a sip of his tea and looked at me puzzled. 

“This,” he said gesturing slightly with his cup, “Is not tea. It’s not entirely unpalatable but it’s clear that it is not just tea.”

I had to chuckle at that. His diction and expression was very close to Dr. Whitson’s mimicked description of another’s reaction to the concoction. 

“Since it tastes familiar,” he continued, “I must assume you have been feeding me this over the last several days.”

“Correct.”

“My memories after arriving here are inadequate,” he admitted. “I would be appreciative of your observations.”

I complied to the best of my ability. Once I had finished my recitation he glanced around the sitting room again. He then asked me to fetch the letter introducing Dr. Whitson and the recipe for the tincture. He examined both closely.

“Interesting,” he finally said. “I suspect that this was the first time Dr. A-------- had ever met Dr. Whitson in person rather than via correspondence.”

“He did mention that his colleague was only in town for a few days before returning to Glasgow on his last visit.”

“I suppose, if we looked, we would indeed find a Dr. Whitson in the vicinity of Glasgow who has never been outside of a five-mile radius from his surgery,” my friend mused. “That he would discard such a useful alias is very curious.” 

I firmly refused to use his words to make the obvious connection. My friend noticed and changed the subject slightly.

“I suppose I can satisfy your curiosity about the events at the palace,” he said.

“You need not if it causes distress,” I assured him.

“No,” he replied, “telling the tale will help me finish putting my thoughts in order.”

I picked up the teapot. Despite my friend’s words a bit of extra herbal fortification couldn’t go amiss. He allowed me to pour. Thus fortified, he commenced his tale.

“When I arrived at the palace I did not need to wait long. Her Glorious Majesty wished to ask my opinion on several recent cases which had been investigated by the home office rather than through the yard.” My friend took another sip of his tea, “What had concerned her Majesty and her advisors was the potential for anarchist involvement in those incidents.”

I felt relieved. The audience had not been related to the blackmail case and the untimely death of the Queen’s part time intelligence source as I had originally feared. 

My friend continued, “There were some facets of interest but nothing indicated direct involvement by any of the restorationist factions. There were, however, suggestions that other parties that might have been involved in the events in question as well others, which may or may not have been related to the first set, that seemed interested in the outcome of the investigations. It appeared to be one of those situations where the absence of evidence pointed to the interest rather than direct evidence of meddling. Unfortunately, I could only suggest a couple of minor avenues of investigation that had not yet been explored. I was politely thanked for my assistance and requested to inform the home office if any of our cases showed similar interest from either the anarchists or the unknown others before I was dismissed.”

He paused again, gathering his thoughts.

“I was not far from the audience chamber doors when I encountered two of the younger members of the court in conversation with a foreign dignitary in his native form. I could tell at once it was not a terribly friendly conversation,” my friend grimaced at the memory. “There was no other expeditious method of egress so I attempted to be unobtrusive and thus make my escape. I was not successful despite my best efforts. The parties involved in the conversation noticed my presence and the foreigner attacked.” 

He put down his tea cup. I noticed his hands were shaking so I reached across the space between us and held them.

“Things get a bit confusing from this point on,” he admitted. “The dignitary’s touch was like fire and I remember him asking forcefully what I had overheard. When I replied that I had heard nothing, he tossed me aside as if I weighed less than a handkerchief. I remember colliding with something hard; there was pain, then numbness. I must have hit the wall next to the audience chamber doors. The noise of that collision was what likely alerted her Majesty. From where I lay I saw the chamber doors open and felt her wrath roll out even before her form passed the portal. As I was partially behind the door I could not see what happened to the dignitary or the courtiers but there was a lot of movement along with something I could only call squelching followed by a high-pitched squeal. Once the noise ceased I felt her Majesty turn in my direction. I think she actually picked me up. It was very strange. At first I could not feel her touch at all but then I felt as if my entire being was both burning and freezing at once and I knew no more.”

He took a deep breath.

“The next thing I remember was exiting the coach and entering our door. I must admit I was very happy to see you arrive at the top of the stairs as I had not idea how I was going to summon the energy to mount them.”

“I am glad that I had the foresight to await your return,” I replied.

It was at that point I noticed not only that I was still holding his slightly trembling hands but also that my friend’s skin tone had paled noticeably. 

“Enough of this,” I said forceable cutting off whatever he was considering. “You have over exerted for your first foray out of bed.”

“Taking your self-appointed job as a nursemaid seriously I see.”

“I would hate to have all that work go to waste because you wish to push your transport beyond what it can bear too soon causing a relapse,” I replied.

I suppose it reflected how tired and ill my friend still felt that he did not remonstrate as I stood, assisted him to his feet, and steered him gently in the direction of his bedroom. Once I had him settled I was somewhat at a loss. Before he had truly awoken I would have taken a few minutes with my own toilette and climbed in beside him. Now that he was fully in possession of his faculties I was unsure what, if anything he wanted me to do.

My friend, even in his diminished state, saw my dilemma.

“Given your account of the last week I suppose we are well past the point of formality and proper behavior,” he remarked. “You too need rest as much as I and I think it would benefit us both if you took such here.”

I nodded and complied.


	3. On the Brink

Ever since the Whitechapel murders, which the broadsheets had publicly branded the “Ripper killings,” I was certain that Rache kept a close eye on my friend and his career. Thus it was not much of a surprise to me when we returned to Baker Street following our first official consultation with Scotland Yard after my friend’s illness, to find a plain envelope addressed in a familiar hand. Mrs. Hudson informed us that one of the numerous Street Arabs had delivered it not long after we had left that morning. 

My friend took a careful look at the envelope, examining it from all sides. He then delicately slit it open with the jackknife, that normally was stuck into the stack of correspondence to be burned, from the mantlepiece. He extracted a single sheet of paper, read it, snorted, then handed it to me.

The missive only contained a single line. It read: _I am pleased to see that you have fully recovered from your indisposition_. It was unsigned but I recognized the writing. 

“Well,” my friend commented as I looked at him, “You now have another to add to your collection.”

It was my turn to snort. I am still not quite sure of the impetus I felt to keep Rache’s infrequent missives but keep them I did. They resided in the false bottom of my dispatch box locked away from prying eyes. This latest would join the others tomorrow. I was grateful that my friend did not demand that they be destroyed. The danger was obvious. Being in possession of correspondence from a known anarchist risked arrest at best and questioning by one who knew how to rip answers from an unwilling mind at worst. Despite that, my friend allowed me to keep them. 

I glanced between the note and my friend wondering if he needed to examine it further for clues.

“The envelope was more important in terms of imparting information,” my friend intoned as if I had asked my question aloud. “He sent it intentionally through three distinct areas of London and used a number of different couriers before the boy who delivered it.”

“Smudges and crumpling?”

My friend looked pleased, “Exactly.”

“Anything else?”

“We can assume that Rache knows the true source of my _influenza_. He has, by this note, kindly informed me that he does not intend to impart that information to anyone.”

I blinked in astonishment. I had no clue at all how my friend had deduced that from an envelope and a one-line note.

“You can see from the impressions on the paper that he paused in writing his missive. There is a hesitation at the end of the word _have_ and another after the _in_ in _indisposition_. This indicates that _fully_ is important. He knew my illness was serious and potentially debilitating. As far as the second pause, from the impressions he first intended to write influenza then changed his mind in the process of writing indicating he wished me to know that he knew of the source of my illness.”

I knew that was not all of it.

“The paper itself is also telling. It is commonly used in Whitehall and the Palace for official correspondence, note the watermark. The envelope, in contrast, is as common as dirt.”

“So, official paper hidden in a common envelope indicates secrecy?”

“Yes, along with all the obfuscation he layered on to get it here.”

“But wasn’t the letter’s convoluted delivery meant to keep you from locating him?” I asked.

“If he wanted to obscure his location all he would have need do was post it from a busy office or use the telegraph. No, he was reassuring me that this information would not be followed back to him.”

I couldn’t see it but I had no reason to doubt my friend. He and Rache were like evenly matched long-time sparing partners. They could anticipate the other’s moves to a degree that bordered on mind reading. I did have to smile, however, about my friend’s line of reasoning. Between the case and this bit of mental prowess I knew that my friend was fully recovered indeed.

*****

After the turn of the year my friend seemed determined to prove to all and sundry that his _illness_ had been a mere inconvenience in no way affecting either his stamina or his intellect. A variety of cases, most of them only requiring a few days work, occupied us for the three months following the turn of the seasons. The weather had just barely started hinting at spring when he took a case for the French Government. It was sensitive enough that I cannot disclose the particulars. Suffice it to say, what had appeared at first to be a rather simple recovery effort turned into a grueling two-month affair where I was of little help due to my inability to speak French not to mention the effort it would take to adequately disguise my appearance in a believable manner. As it was, I provided what assistance I could while my friend flitted in and out of our rooms in a wide array of disguises at all hours of the day and night. It took the combined efforts of both Mrs. Hudson and myself to ensure that he was properly fed and rested enough to continue the case to its successful conclusion.

As was his normal habit after a long case my friend did not bestir himself from our rooms for a handful of days. This time, however, he appeared to not be indulging in his usual post case lassitude but instead he seemed more absorbed and contemplative in demeanor. He took to lying on the sofa or sitting in his chair deep in thought for hours on end. Every so often he would focus, usually on me, at times with a rather strange look on his face. If it had been anyone else I would have labeled that look as slightly bewildered but nothing much bemused my friend and thus I did not to know what to make of it.

By the end of the week these bits of focus had become more frequent. Finally, one evening upon returning from my club I resolved to inquire as to exactly what conundrum my friend seemed to find in my countenance over the last week. I should have known that I wouldn’t even need to ask.

“I see you have dined,” my friend said upon my entering. “As Mrs. Hudson has removed the plates I suggest you lock the door.”

My eyebrows must have been expressive. We only locked the sitting room door when discussing extremely confidential matters. 

“You have been wondering what has been puzzling me over the last few days. Sit, and I will lay my ruminations out before you and see what you make of my little problem.”

I locked the door and sat down.

“I have found,” he started in, “that the longer we have shared these rooms and my work the more I value your assistance and your friendship.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“Over the last few months however I have realized that our,” he paused presumably searching his prodigious brain for exactly the right word, “partnership has grown far beyond what I had previously thought would be the optimum level of cooperation between us.”

I knew that he was alluding to the state of affairs that had resulted from what we had decided to call his _illness_. I had been a bit surprised that the physical closeness and unselfconsciousness engendered by his affliction had survived his return to full health. I had to admit I was grateful for it. Over the period I had discovered that one of the side effects to this state of affairs was a distinct lessening of the nightmares that had plagued me on and off since Afghanistan. 

He continued, “I find that I cannot completely fathom the depths of your concern and care. It raises questions that I realize I am unable to deduce the answers. Unfortunately, asking such questions might be considered offensive and so I am in a bit of a conundrum.”

I knew then we were dealing with matters of emotion, an area in which my friend admitted that his understanding was minimal at best. 

“I doubt that there is anything you could say at this point that I might take objection to,” I replied. “If I do, I will endeavor to restrain my reaction until such time as you can explain the reasoning behind whatever you need to ask.”

My friend looked a little less apprehensive. He applied his piercing gaze to my face and appeared reassured of my sincerity.

“I was wondering exactly how far you would follow my lead?”

“As far as necessary,” I replied.

“Even back into the caves of the eldest? Even into what might be considered in some quarters treason?”

I was no light thing but the fact that it was he who was asking made my reply easy.

“Willingly!”

“I would not have you enter into this blindly,” he said. “Let me tell you what is afoot and you may then decide your course of action.”

“I doubt it will change my answer,” I replied.

“I suppose I must start with the incident at the palace. It was a bit more involved than I admitted to you at the time.”

This admission was not new to me. I did have enough Pashto and German to understand at least some of what may friend had cried out in his delirium. 

“In my attempt to escape the antechamber unnoticed I did manage to get the gist of the argument that I had inadvertently come upon.”

He paused, once again searching for the proper words.

“The foreign dignitary and one of the young royals were attempting to convince their counterpart to assist them in convincing the Queen to lift certain restrictions regarding interactions between their kind and humans. Directly before I was noticed the reluctant one had exclaimed ‘But that would result in devastation’ to which the dignitary replied ‘Exactly’. I barely managed to keep that knowledge to myself when the dignitary seized and questioned me. I truly do not remember much after Her Majesty picked me up from the floor but later I found that I had some impressions that I would have never contemplated of my own accord.”

I shuddered in sympathy. My recurrent nightmares were a side effect of something quite similar. Those who dwelt in the caves of the Kush had in some ways played with me. Breaking my body and raping mind then rebuilding in a flawed mockery of my original form. They had reveled in the results of such torture; drinking in the suffering and pain as if it was a fine wine. My escape had been engineered prior to the commencement of the rebuilding part of the cycle. They had not kept as close a watch on an injured man with only one working arm, trusting instead to the remoteness of the location. As it was I was lucky to have made it to what passed for civilization in those benighted parts before I collapsed of exhaustion.

My friend continued, “After I recovered I set about verifying some of the impressions that had lingered in my mind despite, or perhaps because of, your excellent care. Working from the governmental side was relatively easy given her Majesty’s request that I look for conspiracy. The rest of the confirmation came in bits and pieces, some from our case work and others from my own investigations. This afternoon the final pieces were delivered from a rather unusual source.”

“And what source was that?”

“Whom do you think? You who know and have documented my struggles with the anarchists.”

“Rache!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, the man himself,” my friend replied. 

“Since that meeting backstage at the theatre I had not seen my erstwhile adversary in person yet I have over the years manage to determine quite a bit about him. As you remember, when we first encountered Sherry Vernet he was a striking man, tall and lean with a hawk-like nose and square chin. He has not changed much in that regard. From his writing I suspect that he attended one of our major universities at least for a time. He would not have been able to comprehend my initial equation or propose his corollary as Siegerson without at least some formal schooling. He has a talent in the deciphering of secret forms of writing as he has cracked several of my communication cyphers over the years. From his performances, not only with the Strand Players but with others, I have concluded that he is an excellent boxer as well as a practitioner of one of the more esoteric eastern fighting styles using a cane. I suspect he fences as well. His knowledge of chemistry must be profound as he has been responsible for most of the pyrotechnics when working with theater companies. He also seems to have at least a decent knowledge of Botany as he has managed to drug some of my agents as well as successfully poison some of the nobility. If those talents were not enough, he also plays the violin to a level of competence such that he would be welcome in all but the most prestigious orchestras.”

“And he came here to see you? That was bold,” I commented.

“I have never found fault with the man’s nerve.”

“And what was so important that caused him to brave exposure and even capture in that manner?”

“While I was engaged in the French case my investigations uncovered a part of his network. I was in the process of arranging its dismantling and if I was lucky the potential capture of the man. Unfortunately, the authorities did not follow my instructions and the miscreants escaped. The recovered evidence from the raid was likewise useless but at least I could tell from some precisely placed tobacco ash that Rache had physically been at the location and wanted me to know it.”

“Imagine my surprise when this afternoon I received a visit from the man himself. When he arrived, he stood in the doorway for a moment then said ‘It is dangerous to fondle a loaded firearm resting in your dressing gown pocket.’”

“When I had realized just who was climbing the stairs to our humble abode I knew I was seriously in danger. I presumed his presence meant that he had come to dissuade me from continuing my activities against his group. Thus, I slipped the revolver you usually keep in the writing table into my dressing gown and had been covering him from the moment he breached the doorway. At his remark I withdrew the weapon and laid it close to hand on the table.”

“He smiled at me, ‘I doubt that will be necessary but if it eases your mind by all means keep it to hand. It has, after all, been years since we have spoken and I know I have changed in some manner as have you.’”

“‘On the contrary,’ I replied, ‘I do not think either of us has changed beyond recognition.’” 

“‘Yet, you now know more than you did previously about our erstwhile overlords and their _benevolent motives_ , yet you persist in hindering my efforts although I suspect that anything I might say to convince you has already crossed your mind.’”

“‘Quite possibly. And my answers have similarly crossed yours,’ I replied.”

“‘You stand fast?’”

“‘Absolutely as regards to the base issue between us.’”

“He cocked his head at that, ‘Yet given the right provocation I suspect your interests and mine might again, for a time, align.’”

“‘Have you a suggestion to make?’ I asked him bluntly”

“‘It depends upon exactly what other conspiracy your recent investigations have revealed in addition to your continued persecution of myself and my cohorts.’”

“‘Why what sort of other conspiracy would I hunt besides yours?’”

“‘One that has more patrician backers perhaps and which, if successful, would cause as great a change as when those creatures first appeared from the depths of the pit itself.’”

“I knew then that he had some source of information from inside the Government which had alerted him to my inquiries and their nature.” 

“‘What exactly are you proposing then?’ I asked”

“‘I am quite sure that a man of your singular intelligence can see only one outcome to this affair of ours. You will continue to attempt my destruction and I shall do as much to you. If in the process certain rocks are overturned and things that flourish in the darkness are left to wither and die under the sun then that can be counted as a fortuitous circumstance.’”

“‘I shall give no quarter,’ I warned him, ‘nor shall I cease my defense of the Monarchy.’”

“‘I would not expect it,’ he replied, ‘and I can promise you similar diligence to my cause.’”

“‘You must know that if you are clever enough to bring about my destruction, rest assured that I shall do as much to you.’”

“He smiled at that then said, ‘If I could be assured of the former eventuality I would cheerfully accept the latter.’”

“‘So be it,’ I replied.

“He gave me a very theatrical bow, turned on his heel and left as quickly as he had come.” 

I sat and thought for a moment about what my friend had just related. 

“What is this other conspiracy and have you indeed found evidence of same?” I asked.

“I don’t know what it is called,” he replied, “but it involves nothing less than the utter destruction of our kind by those who disagree with the current state of affairs where humans are to be actively cultivated as opposed to merely cattle. I have barely touched its edges yet I can see that it is backed at the highest levels, potentially even officially, by adversaries of the Queen. They have cleverly positioned themselves such that any moves against them will be credited to Rache and his ilk.”

“Why not let them just engage in mutual destruction then?”

“Because of the consequences if this conspiracy indeed manages to seize the ultimate power. Rache, while clever, cannot fight two battles at once especially when one of them is with me and he is smart enough to know it.”

I knew then why my friend was asking. The potential for disaster both personal and professional was very high. My nerves quailed at the thought of what would occur if we were indeed branded as traitors for this. Yet the alternative was that I would send my friend into great danger alone and without a trained marksman at his side.

“So let us then cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war,” I said.

He smiled back at me, “The game is indeed afoot.”


	4. The Emerald Falls

The next days found me running a large number of errands all over the metropolis for my friend. He was just as busy, if not more so, coming and going from our rooms at all hours of the day and night. Over that time period I saw him use at least a dozen disguises. He even left the house on one occasion by climbing out my bedroom window and from there hoisting himself onto the roof.

It was a little more than a week and a half after my friend’s conversation with Rache. I had slept fitfully the night before and was taking my time with the paper and a second cup of coffee. My friend burst into the sitting room and upon spotting me he grinned widely.

“It’s finally happened,” he said. “I was beginning to think that all the investigatory activity we have engaged in over the last week or so was not going to bear fruit!”

I put down the paper, “So what event has just happened that you were trying to provoke?”

“On the way to the Yard this morning I was almost run down by a coach,” he replied cheerfully. “And then there was the incident with the falling bricks on the way back. That doesn’t even mention the set of roughs that dogged my tracks in both directions.”

“What?”

“I’ve been expecting some sort of attempt on my life especially as I have been working so diligently with Lestrade to set up a series of arrests that should cripple the anti-royalist conspiracy.”

Something in his tone and delivery alerted me. Usually he would refer to Rache and his ilk as ‘restorationists’ or ‘anarchists.’ ‘Anti-royalist’ was a new term and I suspected that what he meant by it was not at all what most, including the good men at the Yard, would assume. Their assumptions would be reasonable as they, unlike myself, were unaware of just what exactly my friend was attempting to flush from the concealing shadows. 

“When are the arrests to be made?” I asked. “Is there anything that we need to do to assist?”

“Matters have gone far enough that I am unnecessary for this part of the proceedings. Thus, it is better if I absent myself for the span of few days until the police have the authority to act.”

“Where are we going?”

“I think a short jaunt to the Continent is in order,” he replied. “Although we will need to take some precautions to avoid our enemies’ machinations.”

“Do I need to pack anything special?”

I was thinking of my air rifle.

“No. You will just need to follow my instructions to the letter as we are playing cards with not one but two very clever opponents. Although, the inclusion of your pistol in your coat pocket would not go amiss.”

I grinned, “So what’s the plan?”

“I will leave shortly telling Mrs. Hudson that I will be dining at my club and that you will be gone for a few days, starting tomorrow, to visit a friend. You, will pack and dispatch your luggage, unaddressed, to Victoria Station tonight to be called for tomorrow. Tomorrow morning do not take the first or the second hansom that presents itself at your disposal. Jump into the third and tell the driver to take you to the strand end of the Lowther Arcade. Pay your fare quickly then dash through the Arcade so that you come out the other side at a quarter past nine. There you will find a small brougham, dark blue in color. The driver will be dressed in a black cape with red piping about the collar and red stitching around the button holes. He will deliver you to Victoria in time to catch the Continental Express.”

I wasn’t too surprised at the instructions. We had done similar things on occasion to shake determined pursuit. 

“Where shall I meet you and do I need to call for the luggage when I get to the station?”

“The second most carriage from the front will be reserved for us,” my friend replied. “I’ll have the luggage dealt with. 

With that he disappeared into his room for a bit then headed out again.

The next day I followed his instructions with a couple minor additions of my own. Forgoing one of Mrs. Hudson’s excellent breakfast I obtained a pastry at a nearby shop and then took the third cab from the queue in front of Paddington, much to the annoyance of the first two drivers. In cab I switched my scarf which had been designed to be turned inside out showing a different color. Likewise during my transit of the Lowther Arcade I managed not only to switch hats with one on display but also to acquire an umbrella from an inattentive gentleman who was engaged in heated negotiations with a shopkeeper. The brougham and driver drove up exactly at a quarter past. The driver was extremely skilled so I was delivered to Victoria in good time. 

I located the carriage and settled in to wait for my friend idly watching the sea of humanity on the platform. I amused myself by attempting to deduce the occupations and potential destinations of various passengers. The elderly lady and her maid were clearly headed to the Mediterranean coast for the former’s health. I wasn’t sure where the distinguished gentleman in the sober suit was headed but he was surely a member of the legal profession. The nervous Spanish, or maybe it was Italian, man with the barely passible English was headed back home and wished to be reassured that he indeed had the correct train. Of course, there were numerous couples and families saying their good byes but I was not skilled enough to determine more than the base relationships.

As the engine whistled its departure warning the Spanish gentleman I had noticed earlier arrived in my carriage. I thought about protesting that this car had been reserved but something made me wait. Instead I stared out the window and ignored his presence. With another whistle blast the engine started to pull out of station. As the train began to move a tall thin man in an inverness coat and deerstalker cap rushed onto the platform. His shoulders slumped as he realized that the train was now moving too fast for him to attempt to catch it. 

As the station receded I heard my friend’s familiar voice say, “Damn!”

I looked at the other occupant of the car. The Spanish man’s coat and hat were on the seat next to my friend who was currently wiping his face with a damp cloth to remove a layer of greasepaint.

As my friend was not normally one to use expletives I had to ask, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing insurmountable,” he replied, “but I now know that Rache is not the only one with a man inside the Home Office.”

“How so?”

“I assume you didn’t recognize the driver of the brougham,” he stated. “It was my contact in the Home Office M. H-----. He is a most singular intellect and has quite a flair for subterfuge when he can be bothered to bestir himself from his analytics. I will need to let him know that his office is not as secure as one might think given his position.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow your reasoning,” I replied.

“My apologies. I forget that you and I have not had much chance to converse over the past week. Give five minutes or so to restore my appearance and I will catch you up with the results of my investigations.” 

True to his word my friend reappeared looking much more himself in both dress and appearance in less than ten minutes. He sat across from me and commenced his exposition.

“During my initial foray into the archives I had put it about that I was looking for evidence regarding restorationist actions impacting official Governmental duties. Due to my prior interactions with M. H----- I was not terribly surprised when he divined my true interest and the potential security threat. I chose to recruit him into my search for an internal anti-royalist conspiracy. As I mentioned earlier his intellect is far superior to most and his loyalty is very much to the nation itself. It seems that he was already aware of something amiss and was pursuing his own lines of inquiry. I was very pleased that he was amenable to combining efforts. His insights and contacts over the last few weeks have proven to be extremely helpful.”

“After Rache’s visit I consulted him, without directly mentioning my erstwhile opponent, about the potential for agents within the Home Office. He suggested that the raids and arrests as well as my planned departure could be used to identify at least some of those agents and that he would endeavor to do so. He also offered his services in any way to further my plan which lead to him playing driver for you today as well as to make sure that my intent to leave for the continent was known within certain portions of the bureaucracy. The exact date and time of my departure, as well as the destination, was not specified but I suspect that the absence of M. H----- from the office this morning coupled with the known fact that he had been assisting me with my documents search led someone to conclude that I was, indeed, leaving today.”

“The gentleman on the train platform,” I said suddenly realizing that the behavior I had observed could have been a manifestation of something more sinister than just missing a train.

“Excellent,” my friend replied. “Did you recognize him?”

I thought back of the glimpse I had of the man in the deerstalker, “No, but he seemed extremely tall.”

My friend laughed, “It was Rache himself and he wasn’t really trying to catch the train.”

“Why?”

“I suspect he not only determined that we were leaving but also had ascertained that someone else had come to a similar conclusion. He appeared on the platform as a warning to me that we had not completely shaken off our pursuit.”

“But this train is an express with limited stops direct to the boat at the channel, is that not enough to dissuade Rache and his ilk?”

“Now Rache is on the same plane intellectually as myself and I am beginning to suspect that whomever is the anti-royalist mastermind is similarly mentally endowed. If I were in pursuit, something so simple as missing the express would be little hinderance.’

“So what would you do?” I asked.

“If I had a network but limited funds I would wire ahead. If funds were not an object then I would engage a special.”

“Disguises would foil the first and would not a special arrive too late?”

“Disguises are not foolproof. In addition, this train stops at Canterbury and there’s always a delay in boarding the boat. No, odds are they would catch us there.”

“Could we have them arrested?”

“We would net ourselves but one or two of our fish and the rest of the enterprise would hide themselves in the depths of London only to reappear later under a different guise.”

“I assume you have a plan,” I stated.

“Yes,” my friend replied. “We will depart at Canterbury and proceed cross-country to Newhaven then cross over to Dieppe. Someone will undoubtedly check the direction of our luggage either at Canterbury or the boat and discover it is bound for Paris. They will assume that we have used disguises to slip by them and will then wait for us to collect our belongings at the Paris depot. In the meantime, we will procure ourselves a couple of bags and endeavor to encourage the economy wherever we travel.”

At Canterbury we departed the train from one of the 2nd class cars with only minimal possessions and a modicum of disguise. Someone observing us might conclude that we were a pair of solicitors engaging in an overnight trip for some purpose or another. I quickly determined that there was a little under an hour before we could catch a train to Newhaven. My friend used the time to lay another false trail by hiring a local driver to make a trip to Whitstable and paid him an inordinate fee to then tell all and sundry who later inquired that he had conveyed two gentlemen to that backwater. No sooner had my friend returned from his transaction we heard a whistle from the line indicating an unscheduled train. My friend pulled me back into the side of the building so that we were not directly visible just as a special steamed through the station. 

“And there they go,” my friend remarked then added, “Let us see about some lunch so that we might not starve before reaching Newhaven.”

I was surprised but we managed to make Brussels late that evening. A few days later found us in Strasburg where my friend sent a coded missive to M. H----- regarding the intelligence failure requesting a reply to Geneva. In Geneva we received news from Lestrade that the raids had netted a good portion of a restorationist cabal. There was also a note from M. H----- that most of those captured were not strictly restorationist but instead part of the plot against the royals my friend had uncovered. It appeared that Rache had used my friend’s actions to rid his organization of those who only wished to see the newer members of the nobility in power as opposed to ridding of the world of all the old ones and their ilk. 

My friend attempted to convince me to leave him then. I was just as adamant that he not face the danger alone. As I pointed out most of our planning would have been for naught if I were to take my leave. For once I managed to prevail in my arguments. We therefore spent some time wandering the Rhone valley and then over several still snowy passes traveled into Swiss territory finally arriving in the alpine town of Meiringen. 

Meiringen, like many towns of its size in the region, is primarily known for the majestic alpine scenery as well as the quality of its hospitality. It is also, however, known for its proximity to a spectacular waterfall referred to as the Smarasdgrunes Wasser, or Emerald Falls. The owner of the Gasthof, one Stieler by name, was quick to inform us that the name of the falls had been changed in the time of his Grandfather when one of the old ones had taken a bath in the pool at the base of the falls. No one had seen it leave the area. He noted that from time to time in the years directly after this event, haunting music would lure livestock and the occasional traveler into the pool. None who followed such music were ever seen again. The locals were convinced that the old one had taken up residence in caves behind the falls and were content to tether livestock at the pool on a monthly basis to keep it from molesting the populace. My friend informed me later that the cataract had been previously known colloquially as _the falls on the stream coming from the mountain pass_ and had been noted on various maps of the area as _the Reichenbach Falls_. 

As we planned to stay a few days I decided to attempt to place my thoughts and experiences since the turn of the year in some semblance of order. My friend, seemingly restless, took a turn about the town in the morning and then at luncheon indicated that he would make the hike to see the falls from a vantage point the locals had found a bit up the mountain. My heart sank for as he announced his intent he also made a sign that we had prearranged that it was here where we would part ways as planned. As planned, I indicated that I needed to attend to my correspondence and would follow him in an hour or so to view the cascading torrent. 

The track was unmistakable, winding into the hills and finally coming within sight of the falls. It was a place of stark beauty. The torrent of green water plunges over a lip of rock down into a tremendous abyss creating spray which wafts upward rolling and roiling like smoke from a huge bonfire. The trail, at this point went over a patch of marshy ground and from there onto bare rock coming to a halt at a flat overlook covered in spray from the falls. The noise, even before one reached the rock face was tremendous but in and amongst the sound of the water was some echo that reminded me of the caves beneath the Hindukush. I steeled my nerves and continued. What I saw there on the ground made me feel ill. Two sets of footprints were clear in the mud leading toward the overlook. None returned. I could also see that the ground, just before the path turned to rock was torn up into a mire. There were even bits of mud and plants that had been tracked onto the rock ledge itself. 

As I looked about for a manner to approach the ledge without disturbing the footprints I spotted next to a rock several yards uphill from my vantage point an alpenstock stuck into the ground. I carefully approached it and realized that sitting on the rock was my friend’s silver calling card case weighting down a number of pages. I picked up both and realized that the pages had been torn from the notebook my friend habitually carried. I found it interesting that despite the location where it had clearly been penned the writing was as neat and precise as if my friend had been using a table.

‘My dear friend,’ it started, ‘I write these words as the sufferance of the one known as Rache. He awaits my convenience for a discussion of those issues upon which we disagree. He has done me the favor of informing me exactly how my plans for the destruction of himself and his network were thwarted as well as his methods of keeping track of our movements over the last few days. I am content to believe that I will be able to remove the threat he poses to our sovereign and her kinfolk though the cost will, in all probability give some, you in particular, much anguish. As I have already explained my reasoning in this matter to you I will not do so again here. Tell Lestrade and Gregson that the majority of the papers needed to either convict or remand his prisoners to the Queen’s pleasure are located in a blue envelope filed under R. If you are somehow unable to return to our rooms in a timely enough fashion Mrs. Hudson has been instructed to allow either of them to retrieve the documents. M. H----- may also be able to assist them if they find the case needs additional evidence. I have made every disposition of my property before I left Albia and left it in the care of my elder cousin whom also shares my name. I hope that soon you will be able to look back upon our association with the fondness of reminiscence as opposed to other less savory emotions. As always you shall be my faithful companion and you may continue to believe me to be very sincerely yours,’ it ended there with the nearly illegible scrawl that he often used as a signature when he was in haste.

The rest is quickly related. The experts determined that there indeed had been a struggle between two men on that rocky ledge dampened by the spray from the falls. It was inevitable that the result of such a contest would lead the opponents to reel off the edge locked in combat. This was borne out by smears of mud on the very edge of the precipice marking where the two had presumably fallen. Recovering the bodies was unthinkable not only due to the morass of swirling water but also of the potential denizen therein. 

I was required to stay for a number of days so that I might give my testimony regarding the events as I knew them. The particulars were the talk of the region during this period but the locals had enough decency to not engage me in their gossip. Luckily, I only had to endure the pitying looks and sudden silences when I came into earshot for a handful of days before another event overtook the local imagination. I suppose the untimely demise of two foreigners was nothing compared to the sudden change in color of one of the local lakes downstream from the falls along with a massive die off of the fish therein. I must admit that I was just happy to be upwind of such an incident.

The inquest has closed with a verdict of death by misadventure. I do not begrudge the authorities this salve to their propriety as they had neither perpetrator nor body to show and only my friends note and a bit of mud to indicate there was a second person who toppled into the abyss. I have used my idle time here to finish this account and tomorrow I shall pack and depart for Paris and thence onward to London. The journey will, I hope, allow me to steel myself for the difficult task I have ahead of me. It is now up to me to tell the tale of the contest between the most dangerous of criminals and the truest champion of the realm in this generation so that the greater masses might know the truth about one of the best men I have ever had the honor of knowing. 

S. M----, Major (Ret’d)

Meiringen, Switzerland

9th May, 1891

_I took the liberty, whilst you were breaking your fast and engaging suitable transport, of perusing your manuscript. For a man who professes but little literary talent I find this document to be highly preferable to much of what is commonly hailed as outstanding prose. I must also admit that it far outshines a good portion of the work intended for the reasonably educated masses who peruse such periodicals as the Star of Albion. In fact, with a few discrete omissions and a tad bit of obfuscation this could serve your stated purpose in telling the world about recent events. I wish you the best of luck in your chronicling endeavors._

_J.H.W._

_P.S. You might wish to replace the lock on your bag at sometime in the near future. While it should prove serviceable for your travels it is not up to the task of thwarting a skilled person, such as myself. After all I was tutored in such arts by one who, though now gone from me, was most competent._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this is the end of the tale imparted by the mutant hare I will close as is my custom, 
> 
> _If this writer has offended,_   
>  _Think but this and all is mended,_   
>  _That you have but tarried here,_   
>  _While the writing did appear_   
>  _And these words upon this screen,_   
>  _Are of no import, only my dream._
> 
> It has been an honor to share my dream with you.


End file.
